


Caged

by JadeyKins



Series: Devil's Backbone [5]
Category: Constantine (TV), Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Cannon: if they died in the show they're dead in this 'verse's canon., M/M, Of course you've got SPN in the cannon… so take that as you will.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeyKins/pseuds/JadeyKins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From one darkness to another, John has blundered through the last few months hoping to stave off the impending evil that threatens to consume the planet. When Castiel's Grace begins to fail again, despair seems imminent. The forces of good are already crippled, can they afford to lose one of their greater allies? John wagers that they can't and that he can save Castiel from oblivion. Jack Harkness, ever Earth's protector, agrees to the mad quest to carve out a new power source for the fallen Angel. Will they succeed? Or will reality shatter from their effort?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work mashes together three different major sources. For those wondering on where the cannons end, Constantine through to the end of season 1, Supernatural through to 10x14 (The Executioner's Song), and Torchwood through to the end of season 3 (Children of Earth).

John Constantine stuck the cigarette between his lips before digging the lighter out from his pocket. He had to strike it twice before the flame burst forth. A little too much like himself, it was running on fumes and hard to spark. Needed fluid and maybe a new wick. Unfortunately, those weren’t solutions for him. A human mind had no easy fixes.

Damn if the view didn’t help, though. Out before him was a great, wide view of nighttime Atlanta. Traffic and street lamps glowed like urban arteries. From so far up, the city pulsed in a hypnotic pattern. 

Maybe he’d had a bit much at the hotel bar.

Jack Harkness stepped up behind him and draped around him. Snug against him, Jack trailed his hands around John’s hips and settled lower. Thumbs slid along, closer, but not yet touching anything truly sensitive. He leaned in against John’s right ear, breathing into him, and rolled his palms down further.

John rolled backwards into him, leaning his head to the side more and sneaking a peek of a kiss.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here,” Jack whispered.

“Don’t care.”

“You will if you set off the sprinklers.”

“Maybe I’ll finally get you out of those clothes.” John snuck another kiss.

Jack laughed and kissed his throat. “I wanted to strip at the door. You’re the one who needed a smoke.”

John leaned his head back against the taller man. “Standing at the top of the world. Felt appropriate.”

“You’re drunk,” Jack said.

“You had the same amount I did.”

“My metabolism’s better.”

“You proved that the other night.”

“I did.” Jack kissed at his neck. Small, tender kisses that made John hold in a moan. Didn’t do to let him know his full effect. “Don’t feel bad about it.”

John twisted in the arms of his lover, which led to Jack pushing him up against the glass. The rounded window actually gave ever so slightly and adrenaline spiked through John. Over sixty stories were between them and the ground. He took a drag off the cigarette, kept himself polite enough not to blow it into Jack’s face, and wound up looking down at all that darkness. Jack eased up on his grip and John clutched at him. Before he got teased about heights, John said, “A teenager would have trouble keeping up with you.”

“I’ll go slow this time. Soon as you’re done with your smoke.” Jack teased one last kiss before walking away. He slid his suspenders off his shoulders and tugged the shirt up out of his dark blue pants. 

John took a long drag off the cig. “So tell us true, you ever see the Beatles when they came to America?”

“I’m not American.”

“Sound like it though.”

“You have too, on occasion.” Jack draped his shirt across the desk chair.

“Aye,” John said. “But come on. Worldwide sensation. Don’t say you never saw them.”

“I did.” Jack turned towards him with a wicked grin. The dim desk lamplight gleamed off his perfect teeth. “Back when they played in Liverpool, before they were a worldwide sensation.”

“Why then?”

“Well, it’s better. Everyone can get a glimpse when they’re famous. Makes it less fun.” He stripped off his white undershirt.

“That what keeps drawing you to me? Little bit of fame comes my way.”

Jack came close again and wrapped his arms around John. Their mouths played at each other, but never touched, despite John tipping upwards and opening for him. “Never know what the future will bring.”

“I’m hoping to guess at the next few minutes.”

“Minutes?”

“Mmm, hours would be preferable.”

Jack chuckled and then finally captured John’s lips in a kiss. Something John had been hoping for all night and there, thank the Almighty, Jack nipped and pulled and pushed against him. John clung to him, his tongue darting forward and licking and opening. Jack rolled against him, shoving him against the window, and thrusting his tongue down into him. For a split second the fear that the glass would shatter and they’d fall forever frightened the shit out of John. Not that that stopped him. No, John latched his arm across Jack’s bare shoulders and moaned.

“Put the cigarette out,” Jack said softly. He broke off their contact and sauntered over towards the bed.

John took one last long drag before pushing away from the glass. He used one of the shitty plastic cups to put it out. As he spun towards the bed, he let the smoke out in a long tendril.

Jack smirked. 

Oh, that was a sight. Jack Harkness half naked, movie star good looks even in the darkness. Not too bad a job, landing him as a regular lover.

That gin was singing through him. Good thing it had taken an upswing instead of the down this time. Hopefully, it wouldn’t impede tonight’s intentions. John dragged his tie looser and looser as he stalked towards the immortal. Before that laugh could slip from Jack’s lips, John straddled his lap and kissed him. Sitting like this, didn’t take long to feel a growing hardness underneath him. His own pressed tight against his suit pants.

Warmth spread through him and it wasn’t related to the gin anymore. John pushed closer and closer, tangling his arms around Jack’s shoulders. Jack stripped him of his white dress shirt before rolling them. The sheets of the king-sized bed were cool to the touch, though his focus certainly fell more to what Jack was doing with that mouth of his. More kisses and caresses across his bare skin while John worked at undoing his belt.

A card key slipped into the lock—maybe the only sound louder than the moans John emitted. Except, Jack had linked the deadbolt long ago. The card key allowed the user that false sense of access and so suddenly, there was a loud clunk as someone shoved against the door.

A soft, content laugh burst from John. “Go let him in, yeah?”

Jack licked at John’s belly once more before walking away.

Hell, he was missing those touches already. Right and rare, his skin felt perfect. Nothing like arousal to make one feel alive again. To make everything better. He rolled his head enough to watch for his lovers to come around the corner.

“Guess who’s here,” Jack said.

“Our lord Almighty,” John teased.

“Not funny,” Castiel said.

Castiel, former Angel of the Lord, former carrier of Leviathan, restored Angel of the Lord, and who knew what now, had been the only other card carrying member of this room.

Three lovers, all capable of fucking the universe to a grand degree, and they fucked each other on occasion as well. 

Sometimes the irony was too great for even his sense of humor. John drew down the zipper on his pants.

Castiel shed the trench coat that was too much like John’s and dropped it onto the nearby couch. Jack slid his arms up Castiel’s shoulders and dragged the suit jacket off the Angel. On their first meeting, John couldn’t help but think they were light and dark haired versions of each other. Perhaps almost too accurate now, considering the psychic mishap a few weeks previous. While the memories slipped from John more and more each day, Castiel had more control and awareness, which gave him an advantage in the sack. He raked his eyes over John and let his gaze linger on that spot on his hip. 

John hitched his fingers under his waistband and slid both pants and underwear off.

After that, Castiel was drawn to him. His fingers were cold against John’s skin and his kisses were sharp assaults of teeth more than tongue. Jack came back to the bed and provided more heat. Castiel was like a block of ice that melted between them with each tug and touch. Low, deep sounds rumbled out of him.

The rest of the clothes came off at some point. John cared more about touches of hands and tongues than how their skin got bare. Greedily, he sought more and more out of both of them until finally Jack spread lube on his fingers and worked him open. Castiel pushed his way in after that, once he was ready, and that was when the fun truly began.

Jack panted heavily as he worked his way into Castiel and before long, Castiel slid back and forth between them. John caught onto his rhythm and rose to meet him, rose to put himself in the best position possible for all involved. When that stimulation wasn’t enough, John slipped his hand down and stroked himself. He twisted and gasped and bucked until he came loud and wet. Jack and Castiel practically came together not too long after that. Or maybe it had been a short while. John was too far gone to care.

They became a mess of entwined limbs. John barely knew where he started, let alone whose hand was where on him, or even who he was touching. 

A grand, drowsy state claimed John’s mind. He drifted on towards that dreamland for the sated.

Castiel coughed.

At first, the sound was nothing. A light force of lung movement. But he didn’t stop at one or two. A full blown fit racked him so hard that he sat up. Turned out he’d still been between John and Jack, and he coughed more and more. One would expect that sound out of John with his smoker’s lungs, not from Castiel.

When the fit continued, Jack snapped up to sit beside Castiel. His hand trailed over his back, trying to rub and soothe, but not having an effect. John stayed still in the bed and watched them. By now he was separate from them, a being all his own, and he seemed not to have a place in their moment of hurt and comfort. A strange spectator at what his lovers were doing, John found he didn’t mind and yet, his stomach nagged at him. Tension and worry over an Angel. He almost prayed.

At long last, Castiel drew in ragged, clouded breaths. He rested his head against Jack’s shoulder and Jack slid his hand up to brush through Castiel’s dark hair.

Only then did John sit up with them. He drew his knees up closer to his chest. “How bad is it?”

Castiel closed his eyes. “Bad.”

Jack frowned over Castiel at John.

“The second Grace is failing,” John murmured. “Any idea how long you have?”

“A few weeks. Two months at most.”

Jack clutched Castiel tighter against him.

Powers had shifted in evil’s favor too frequently as of late. Rising Darkness? More like swallowing. Everywhere he went, John found serious magic and power that shouldn’t be possible. Darkness lurked and waited for goodness to slip up irreparably. A few key losses and the war would be over before anyone recognized that it began. 

Castiel was one of those keys. John felt it all the way down to his bones. Angels never jumped into the trenches like this one. Even worse, the rumors all said that the Angels had to concentrate on themselves and Heaven after the damage Metatron wrecked. The forces of good were going in wounded. Bad place to begin.

They needed Castiel more than ever.

John ran his hand slowly through his blond hair. He let out a deep breath. “Well, we are just going to have to do something about that.”


	2. Chapter 2

John had anticipated an eager response out of his lovers. Some kind of agreement at the least where they pledged an effort. Instead, Castiel remained huddled against Jack as he barely even turned his head to look at John. An expression of resignation was across the Angel’s face and John had seen it too well in his nightmares. He shook his head. “You can’t give it up.”

“There’s nothing that can be done,” Castiel said. “I am dying.”

“We haven’t even tried,” John said. “There has to be a text or angle to consider—”

“No,” Castiel whispered.

“—I haven’t even gotten through a quarter of Jasper’s books. I’ve been reading—”

“No.”

“—about dimensions. Not alternate ones, ones that are like superimposed on our own, like the Hells and Heavens. There’s more than that, isn’t there, Jack? That’s what we talked about that night. All we have to do is find a way to tap into the right dimension. Of course that means finding the right dimension first. That’s the tricky—”

“John!” Castiel snapped.

The impending grief and anger he’d shoved away by focusing on the problem crashed over John’s psyche and he roared, “What?”

“I don’t deserve another chance.”

The three of them went completely still with John and Castiel having a staring contest in the darkened room. Castiel had an extra weariness in his gaze that made John cave. With a heavy sigh, he shoved a hand through his hair. He settled his arms on the tops of his knees. 

World falling apart and Castiel was willing to fall off into oblivion.

“You’re full of shit,” John said.

“John,” Jack warned.

“You think you get to give up because you made a few mistakes?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” John continued. “Our good deeds don’t outweigh the sins, but you don’t see Jack wallowing off on some distant star until the end of eternity.”

“Did that for a few months,” Jack said.

John glared at him. “Months. You couldn’t stay away from Earth. And I’ve got all manner of assholes dragging me out of my hidey-holes. I don’t even have that much power to begin with, but there are expectations that I won’t just sit back and watch. Why’s it get to be any different for you?”

“I’ve fought a long time,” Castiel said. “And there isn’t any ‘fixing’ me. No one has ever done what you’re suggesting.”

“They’ve claimed far too many things impossible and yet they happened,” John countered. “Averting the Apocalypse. Opening a door to Purgatory.”

“Pulling a soul from the Cage,” Jack said quietly.

“Death did that,” Castiel said.

“But it was possible,” Jack replied. “John has a point.”

Castiel scowled at him.

“Humanity needs you.”

“I nearly decimated the planet.”

“Then maybe saving it is your penance.”

“I have saved it. Multiple times. I’ll fight for as long as I’m able, but I’m tired.” Castiel closed his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Well, tough,” John said. “We’ve got to do something.”

Castiel pushed away from Jack to sit up on his own. Jack still had a casual grip on Castiel’s hand, which leant them that extra bit of intimacy John never quite got to feel. They were a bubble he only got to witness. “Have you thought about the consequences?”

“You’re restored.”

“That’s one outcome,” Castiel said.

“World’s already going to Hell. If we don’t find a way of stopping the floodgates—” John said.

“Excuse my selfishness, but I meant me. You might be able to restore me, but what if you change me? What if instead of becoming an Angel again, you alter me into something else.”

“You’d be a force of good,” John said. “That’s what matters here.”

“You’re assuming too much,” Castiel replied. 

“Huh?”

“What if I turn out wrong?”

Now that was a question. Power corrupted, didn’t it? And shoving Castiel’s body full of raw new power might in fact change the being. Probably would, and who could predict exactly how when they themselves didn’t know what they were going to do yet. For the briefest instant, John let that possibility play in his head. If Castiel became something dark and evil instead of good, then he’d have to correct his mistake. That was a long way off, if it ever came to pass. 

And it never would if they couldn’t get Castiel to join them on this madman’s quest.

“Never occurred to me,” John said.

Castiel snorted.

“You’ve been in my head. I’ve been in yours.” John drifted his hand through Castiel’s hair. “We know each other like no other, and, love, you’d never come out the other side of this evil.”

Castiel took in a too sharp breath and turned his face away.

Jack leaned in on his other side and said, “He’s right.”

The silence agonized John. His cigarettes were off in his pants pocket, but he couldn’t have one right now anyway. Besides potentially setting off an alarm, Castiel had had a coughing fit. Seemed more than a bit rude to smoke up the air around him in his current condition. Yet, John’s fingers still itched for the feel of a cigarette between his fingers.

Castiel reached over and slipped his hand into John’s. “All right,” he murmured. “How do we do this? What’s the next step?”

“Finding a way to break through reality, preferably with some relative safety. Won’t do to wind up destroying the world,” John said. “Figuring out what we need to do that.”

“Pinning the right dimension down,” Jack said. “I think I might have a way of doing that, assuming UNIT hasn’t seized all of the Torchwood warehouses.”

“It’s been years,” Castiel said.

“I hid a few of them. The records blew up and anyone who knows where they are is dead,” Jack replied. “Everything should still be there.”

“And I think I have someone to talk to about dimensions. Realities are his specialty,” John said.

Castiel gripped John’s hand a little tighter. “So there’s a stronger chance than I realized.”

“Seems that way,” Jack said.

“There’s something else we have to do.”

“What?” John asked.

“Save Dean.”

John frowned. “Getting you a new Grace might be easier than saving him, love. The Mark of Cain is a curse from God itself. Doomed to walk the planet for eternity.”

“Cain gave it to him.”

“Then maybe Cain holds the answer.”

“He’s hard to find.”

“I would be too, if I’d given up a curse like that. He must feel about ten thousand pounds lighter,” John said. “Not that he was known for being very public before that. So, find Cain, find a way to save Dean from the curse, find a way to break open reality and do all this without letting Hell come to Earth. Sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us. In the morning.”

“Morning?” Castiel said.

With a mischievous smirk, John said, “Well, little late to get started tonight. And we are all here. I’m thinking we should try to test Jack’s metabolism.”

“He’ll outdo both of us.”

“Worth the effort of trying though.”

Castiel laughed an under the breath husky noise that made John want to kiss him that much more. 

The three of them worked their way back down to a horizontal position on the bed. Of course Jack still won out in the end, but John counted falling asleep so perfectly sated the true victory.


	3. Chapter 3

Even at the crack of dawn, John still had a loose, comfortable feeling to his limbs. A kind of perfection slithered through him and made him walk more like a tomcat than usual. Despite being indoors, John kept his sunglasses in place. He hadn’t bothered trying to tame his hair either—mostly because he hadn’t glanced in a mirror on the way out of the Westin. He’d barely shifted around to see the time and catch the sunrise. 

John rapped hard enough on the door that half the apartment building might hear him. When he heard a bit of movement inside, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

The door cracked open a sliver and then swung wide. Claire, still in pajama pants and tank, glared at him. “It’s early.”

“Best time for an inspection,” he declared. He sauntered into the room.

“What? Why?” Claire said with an edge of panic to her voice.

For good reason, John noticed. She had a brown paper sack on the obviously dumpster-recovered kitchen table. John was willing to bet that it had plenty of spell components. Something about the abnormally large stack of books next to the sack was a tip off. He strode over to them and raised the cover of one book with a single finger. Magic binding spells. “Been doing a bit of light reading?”

Claire slammed the door shut and hurried to the table. “You can’t just drop in here whenever you want.”

“I’m the one paying the bill, love. I’ll do as I please,” John said. The bill part was a lie, but Claire didn’t need to know that Jack Harkness had set her up with the pad. She was twitchy enough already with who got to know where she was.

“Then I’ll leave,” she said with a lift of her chin.

“You will not,” John countered.

“I’ll be out by the end of the day.”

“Don’t.”

Claire folded her arms. “I should be able to do what I want.”

She was like looking into a mirror for him. Well, a mirror with a time portal and a sex change. That anger sat on the surface, but it wasn’t deep in her bones yet. She might yet navigate those waters better than he. He wished she would. Yet, a little guidance was needed. After all, he’d blindly ignored all of Anne-Marie’s well-intentioned advice and only picked up on what he found fun. Perhaps if she had had a firmer hand, he might not have strayed so far.

He could ponder the what-ifs until the end of days, which these may very well be. However, he had an idea of what an angry teen didn’t want to hear. Best to just walk the tightrope of what she needed to hear and what she’d tolerate. 

“You should,” John said. “Not here to hinder, just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Claire rolled her eyes.

John snagged a book from the bottom of the pile. “This was part of Jasper’s collection. You think you could have taken it from the millhouse without a bit of permission?”

Ah, and now the realization was running through her head. John could see her thinking too hard. The small bite at her lip and the drop of her gaze were obvious tells.

“I’m not one to judge another for taking up the arts, but be sure to do it smart, yeah? Wouldn’t do to light yourself on fire first time you tried to do something.”

With a smug smile, she said, “I’ve already done a spell.”

John pulled the sunglasses down enough to meet her gaze without interference. “So you are exploring magic.”

“It was a protection spell. To keep unwanted people away.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Apparently, it didn’t work.”

John grinned. “Come on, love. You don’t really want me barred. ‘Sides, just want to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. Surprised you scrounged up all this furniture already. How’d you get it up here?”

“A couple of guys offered to help when they saw me struggling to pull the sofa down the street,” she said.

“Aren’t you the trusting sort?”

She bit at her lip again. “I cast the spell right after.”

“Which one did you use?”

Claire grabbed out a book and opened it to the page for him.

“Ah yeah, this is your basic. If you want a bit more, I can help.”

For a moment, she bounced her weight back and forth in a clear sign of hesitation. She raked her gaze over John as if she could simply see deception, and since she was once an Angel’s vessel, perhaps she could see something others couldn’t. She looked up at him and asked, “Do you know the Angel and Demon wards? I haven’t found them in the books, but I remember that they exist.”

“Mm, yeah. Best done in paint though.”

“I don’t have any.”

“We’ll have to grab some after breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

John glanced over at the half-kitchen. She had barely any pans out and he was guessing that she didn’t have much in general. “Well, I figure, if you’re near broke and you’re probably spending what you have on magic, then you could do a good meal. So, there’s a joint down on the corner. Let’s go see what it’s like.”

Claire stood there staring at him for a long moment. Finally she let out a long breath and said, “Okay. Let me change.”

************* 

They both got big greasy meals of eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and sides of toast. John longed to light up a cig, but they frowned on that indoors and Claire had scrunched her nose when he’d had one during the walk over. Instead, he dug into the meal with a gusto Claire matched. 

“So what’s the real reason you dropped in?” Claire asked between bites.

“Just checking up on you, like I said.”

“I’ve been in that apartment for three weeks and you’ve never bothered me before.”

John hesitated with his fork in the pile of hashbrowns. He had come with a purpose and balking away or lying would only dampen this budding trust between them. “I’ve got news. Has to deal with Castiel.”

Claire slowly finished her bite and set down her fork. “What?”

“Well, he’s in town, so there’s a chance he might try to find you.”

“You’re not going to tell him where I am, are you?”

“No, but honestly Zed might. He’s an Angel and she’s in the habit of believing and listening to them,” he said. “What’s more, don’t be angry with him if does find you.”

“I told him to keep his distance,” Claire snapped.

“Did you mean for that to be an eternal mandate?”

She sulked at that. 

John pursed his lips. God, he hated being the bearer of bad news. He tapped his hand twice on the table before drawing in a big breath. “Castiel is dying.”

Claire’s eyes went wide. “But he’s an Angel!”

“There’s been a few mishaps with him. I won’t go into the long tale, but suffice to say, I am telling you the truth. Castiel’s Grace is flickering and soon enough, it’s going to burn out.”

“Angels can’t die,” she said. “They’re immortal.”

“They can, love. This one is.” John leaned in. “Now, I’m going to do everything in my power to save him, but that’s no guarantee. I know you’ve got perfectly logical reasons to be pissed at him. Just don’t hold that grudge too hard if you want to see him again. He doesn’t have long left.”

“How long?”

“Maybe two months, if we don’t find a cure.”

“But you’re looking for one, right?”

Ah, all that young naïve hope. Claire’s innocence was still fresh and new in some areas. She reminded him of Zed, for both could get that idyllic wondrous hope on their faces. The world had burnt that sentiment out of him long ago.

“Yes,” John said. “We are. And I intend to find a way. Sometimes though, what we hope for doesn’t become the reality we want.”

Claire dropped her gaze down to her breakfast and, after a second, pushed her plate away. At least she’d been mostly through it. “You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I should see him?”

“I think you should look at what you want. If you want any sort of relationship with him, then now’s about all you got. And if you don’t, then you’ve got to make peace with that too.”

“What would you do?”

John leaned back and shrugged. “I’d keep telling him to piss off, but I’m not known for being incredibly social, or for making the wise choice.”

Claire nodded and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Then a sudden anger flashed in her eyes. “How long has he been like this?”

“Don’t know for sure.”

“Take a guess.”

“Last year or so,” John said.

Claire folded her arms over her chest. “That bastard.”

John frowned and set down his fork again.

“That’s why he looked me up at all. He had this dying man’s guilt about abandoning me.” Tears were in the corner of her eyes. “He doesn’t actually care.”

“I’m sure he—”

“Did he mention that I used to pray to him?” Claire demanded. “Every night. For years. And he told me he heard me and he still never—but he’s dying now so he figures he’s got to ‘fix’ me in order to make himself feel better.”

John winced.

She wept and wiped the tears away with the corners of her sleeve before they had a chance to get much past her eyes. 

He leaned forward and offered his hands out to her. She looked down dubious at his hands, but placed hers in his after a moment’s hesitation. Sometimes a little human contact went a long way, and with that barest of touch between them, her tears came a different way. Big drops rolling down her cheeks, but that bravado coming back into place. 

“It’s not a fair world in which a girl your age gets put in this position. But you’ve got the ability to put his mind at peace a measure. What matters is how you feel about that. If six or seven years down the road, you look back and still believe that you made the right choice. You’re the one who has to live with the consequences.”

“I don’t hate him,” Claire said. “And I do want to see him. I thought I’d have more time.”

“With some luck, there might be a great deal more,” John said.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Sorry, love, this is too far out of your league.”

“There has to be something. Research or getting supplies or something.”

John squeezed her hands. “I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“No you won’t.”

John let her go and leaned back in his seat. “We’re kind of at an all-hands-on-deck moment. I won’t keep you out if I can use you.”

Claire nodded.

He nudged the plate back at her. “Going to need your strength, though. Make sure to sleep enough, too.”

“I’d still be asleep if some madman hadn’t been pounding on my door at dawn.”

With a broad grin, John said, “Why’d anyone want to do that?”

Claire rolled her eyes, but she smiled a fraction in return.

Emotionally resilient. Good. Because if this went too far south, she’d be losing John on top of Castiel. Maybe even the unknown guardian Jack. And if John died, the enchantment on Chas would slip away too. Only Zed and Manny would remain and John didn’t believe Claire could put her full faith on either of those. Zed had too many secrets and problems of her own. Manny, well, he was an Angel. John’s faith in Castiel was an exception rather than a rule for how he trusted their species.

All that mattered for the future. For now, he’d eat his eggs and try dragging those Angelic and Demonic wards to mind. Claire needed those protections laid sooner rather than later.


	4. Chapter 4

By ten a.m., John was weary. He stood on the street corner with his hands shoved in his pockets, his sunglasses shoved all the way up, and a cigarette lazily hanging on his lip. He grimaced and checked his watch. Bastard was running late.

The roar of the engine would’ve made a coward jump in the air, but John only seized up from the fright. The black SUV rounded the corner and came to a halt right in front of him. John took one last drag off the cig before flicking it into the gutter. John suspected at some point Jack had been a conman. The man loved his flashy moves. 

John climbed up into the beast of a machine. 

Jack sat behind the wheel and had no one with him. 

“Where’s our Angel?” John asked.

“My program finally got a hit on Cain. He had to take off for Illinois.”

“And you let him go after the father of murder by himself?”

“He didn’t want me along.” Jack had a tension to his shoulders, but he kept his attitude light. Must have been a knockout fight between the two of them. John would’ve given Castiel hell for running off on them without back up. “He’ll call the Winchesters if he needs help.”

“That’s not comforting.” John dug into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He dug around for his lighter in the following uneasy silence. 

After the nightmare adventure, John loathed trusting Dean Winchester—Jack had voiced an agreement earlier this month. Yet Castiel insisted that the Winchester brothers more than needed trust and respect, they deserved it. Assurances that Castiel was watching for signs that Dean was going to full darkness didn’t ease John’s mind. From what Sam had said, Dean had already been a demon. Would be again, when the Men of Letters’ ‘cure’ tapered off.

Dean Winchester was a fucking time bomb that John was in no mood to play with.

Jack frowned at the cigarette. “You ever think about giving those up?”

“My line of work is likely to kill me before these ever have the chance.”

“Okay, how about I don’t want my car to smell like smoke for the next week.”

“You mean something can overpower those pheromones of yours?” John teased as he slid the cigarette behind his ear. 

“You wish.”

“Well, it is embarrassing getting out of your car with a boner.”

“We could do something about that.”

John closed his eyes. “I’m still worn out from last night. Surprised this thing’s capable of a reaction at all. Traitorous little bastard.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it little.”

John laughed.

They pulled into the visitor’s parking lot at the university. John cheated with the playing card another time for a free pass even though Jack was willing to pay for one. “Five bucks won’t break me,” Jack said after.

John shrugged.

Their car doors slammed loud and heavy. John took the cigarette from its holding place and lit it while leading Jack down a path. 

“You didn’t tell me who we’re going to see,” Jack said as he fell in step beside John.

“An old friend of mine.”

“Secrets don’t become you,” Jack replied.

“You in a mood to tell me about Lovecraft’s dinner party yet?”

“Lovecraft wasn’t as amazing as you believe.”

“The man was a racist, sure, but you stayed for the whole evening.”

“He was opening a door to Purgatory.” Jack slid his hands in his pockets. “I was curious.” 

“And why would that be?” John asked.

“I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Sure,” John muttered. Of course he didn’t believe Jack would tell him. If John could get one honest person in his life, he’d be shocked. Okay, an honest person besides Chas. He put his cigarette out before they entered the building.

They slipped into the darkened lecture hall and took up two seats to the far right of the room. Ritchie’s voice droned on with more energy than the tape had had. After a few seconds, John kicked his feet up on the back of the row ahead. 

Jack glared at him for it, but said nothing. He paid more attention to the lecture. About ten minutes later, he opened his leather wriststrap and stared at something in the blue display. Something in its lights confirmed a happy note for Jack because he slid forward and leaned his arms on the seat ahead. A sort of raptured look crossed his face. 

John frowned and glanced at Ritchie. His friend was a little more put together, sure, but nothing big. He was about to lean forward and ask Jack what the hell was so fascinating when Jack leaned back again.

“You know Dr. Richard Simpson?” Jack whispered.

“You know who Ritchie is?” John said.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You look like you discovered Father Christmas is real.”

Jack pursed his lips.

“Come on, mate. What’s got you so excited? Don’t tell me he’s your type. Ritchie’s straight, ‘cept for that kiss that one time, but that was the absinthe. Or the E. Probably the E’s fault. And why am I rambling when you’ve yet to spill?”

One of the girls ahead of them turned around and glared at John. He smiled back at her.

Jack leaned in and said softly, “This is like seeing the Beatles in Liverpool.”

“What? Ritchie becomes famous for something?” John sat upright.

The girl ahead of them turned around again. Her glare had no effect on John.

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“Telling you could alter his timeline.”

John rolled his eyes at Jack. “You and me plan on ripping open reality. You can spill a juicy secret or two. Promise I won’t tell.”

At that point, their disruption was so great that Ritchie glanced over at them. 

“Later,” Jack whispered.

“Holding you to that.”

The darkness had bought them a few extra seconds, but Ritchie soon enough realized just who was causing the disturbance in his class. He stammered twice, which was a shame because he’d been delivering a pretty good speech up until that point. After a cough and a deep breath, Ritchie said, “Um, next time, we’ll be reviewing for the exam, so make sure you prepare your discussion questions. We’re going to change the format a little. You’ll have to be more active than you have in the past. Thank you.”

As the class was ending, some student approached Ritchie and delayed him with a question. John and Jack had an easy time reaching the stage before the professor stashed his materials in his satchel. Once the student walked away, Ritchie said, “Look, John, I appreciate what you did, but if you think our recent effort is a new pattern of behavior for me, then you are about to be disappointed.”

“That’s no way to greet me. I even brought a friend.”

“No, thank you, John. Having you in my life is more than enough to keep this terrifying carousel of fear and destruction rotating in my life. I do not need the acquaintance of Captain Jack Harkness to foul things up even more.” Ritchie slung his bag of his shoulder. “No offense.”

“I’m surprised you know who I am,” Jack said.

“Ritchie enjoys a good data mine,” John said.

“Ah no, I was given his file when I consulted for UNIT. They were afraid he might come along and try to play with my mind.” Ritchie gave Jack a furtive, paranoid glance.

“When did you consult for UNIT?” John asked.

“I’m more interested in what about,” Jack said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Ritchie pointed at Jack and said to John, “You know this man roofies anyone who learns too much about his operations.”

“That was the old days,” Jack replied.

“Answer the questions, mate.”

“Fine, John. Do you remember the Cybermen? The whole ‘ghost’ phenomenon that swept the world. We did a fair job of ignoring the build up because the band was going good, but three months after Newcastle, Canary Wharf happened. I’d done a couple papers about singularity and UNIT wanted my opinion on the Cybermen.”

The months after Newcastle. John grimaced at the remembrance. Those had not been good days. He scratched behind his ear and tried to shove that guilt and self-loathing back down to the depths. “I recall a bit of that. Humans cased in metal. Thought that’d be your dream, Ritchie.”

Ritchie looked horrified. “The opposite! John, a singularity is when technology is supposed to elevate human consciousness and make it immortal. Cybermen make everyone think the same thing. They have to kill human emotions or the subject loses its mind. It’s the preservation of the body and a perversion of the soul. I think the only thing that is a bigger nightmare for me is that the two of you are working together.” He rabbited towards the door.

Jack and John followed him out into the bright sunlight. “Come on, Ritchie,” John pleaded. “We’ve got a few questions for you, that’s all.”

“No, John. No.”

“It’s only theoretical work.”

Ritchie let out a long and loud sigh. “That’s how it starts with you. Next it’ll be ‘it’s only a simple spell.’ Followed by, ‘not going to hurt if you do this teensy thing for me.’ Of course then comes my favorite, ‘can’t do this without you, mate.’ Except this time, somehow, my life and more probably my soul will be on the balance. My answer is no thank you, John. Big resounding not going to happen. Leave me in peace.”

“You’ve not even heard us out,” John said.

“I don’t care.”

“You will.”

“I won’t because this conversation is over.”

John came to a dead stop and Jack halted beside him. No surprise that Ritchie was fighting. Strangely enough, despite the recent setbacks, John always thought of Ritchie with that strength to him. Sure, Newcastle had shaken him, changed him. Perhaps the sorriest of them all. Ritchie’s bright future might’ve been cut short because of his frayed mind and all of that rested on John.

Except, maybe, maybe there was a chance that Ritchie came out okay in the long run. Jack had known of him and looked at him with a kind of reverence. Even with Castiel, Jack spoke and talked to him like an equal. But Ritchie? Ritchie meant something. Enough that Jack worried about ruining the timelines. 

“A long time back, at the motel,” John said to Jack, “you mentioned something about dimensional travel. Not alternates, but to some sort of other space. Outside of ours and helped you move about.”

Jack gave a weary glance between Ritchie’s back and John. “Time vortex.”

Now Ritchie stopped. He had a tension to his shoulders and stance, one John had seen many times in the past. The hook had been cast into the water, now to make Ritchie chomp on it.

“That’s the name,” John said.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ritchie said. “You’re playing one of your psychotic mind games trying to interest me. It won’t work this time.”

John grinned the smile of a man willing to take that bet. “You can actually use that to travel back and forth in time.”

“That’s the idea,” Jack replied with an edge. He was trying to hide something and John wondered at what. At some point, John pledged again, he’d take someone to bed with a few less secrets hiding in their souls.

Then again, mysteries intrigued him far too much and he was a sucker for that which was bad for him.

John squinted in the sunlight and rooted around for his sunglasses. “You know, Ritchie and I were in a pocket dimension recently. You should have seen the old boy. Had enough willpower to overcome Jacob Shaw. 

“Jacob Shaw is alive?” Jack asked with a little more alarm than John liked to hear.

“Not anymore. Ritchie shattered his dimension and therefore, him. You know him?”

Jack’s jaw clenched. More hiding, though John suspected this might have more to do with Ritchie than himself. “I followed up on the case. A man like Shaw must have had a strong will. What happened?”

“Ritchie here overpowered him by sheer thought. Yours truly had to goad him into it, of course, so maybe it was really my—” John had a huge, arrogant grin on his face.

“You only guided me to the place,” Ritchie snapped. “Shaw had left out basic fundamentals to his landscape. The sun, for example. And since, even as twisted as he was, Shaw believed that the sun should exist, I had an opening to create the sun and a field with my mind. I could have created a lot more, except John here convinced me to come back to this plane of existence.” Ritchie fixed him with a glare. “Something I am regretting at the current moment.”

“I’m glad you came back,” Jack said. “You’ll have to forgive me, Dr. Simpson, but what exactly is your expertise? So far I’ve got is transcendentalism, singularity, and apparently pocket dimensions.”

“I wouldn’t suspect you of being a layman, sir,” Ritchie said. He shoved his hand through his dark hair and adjusted his glasses again. “My work is in the human capacity to comprehend and evolve. I believe that we exist on a multitude of planes at once and in that once we are bound by reality. If we find ways to throw off these conventional physics, we can transcend our understanding of the cosmos. Move past the mortal coil and into some greater beyond, if you will.”

“So you believe in Heaven?” Jack asked.

“I believe that all visions of the afterlife exist to some extent,” Ritchie said. “There’s too many people believing in too close of the same thing in order for that to be a lie. I would hope that the concentration of human thought could be rewarded.”

Jack nodded and his hand went to his chin.

Something struck John in this moment. A profound experience, somehow, watching Jack talk to Ritchie without going into great detail. A dance of sorts, but not the fun kind that led to bedroom entanglements, but the kind reserved for spies, for workers of shadows. A devil’s two-step. That’s what Jack was engaging in here. 

Before now, John supposed he had forgotten how dangerous Jack could be. He seemed so light-hearted, but he wasn’t really. On their first meeting, John had been spooked by Jack admitting his immortality. Over time he had been lulled into this sense of security. How safe was he really?

Seeing as what they were working towards, John guessed he wasn’t safe at all.

The silence nagged at Ritchie, John could see that. That southern boy had a furrowed brow and a concentrated look. After a few more moments, Ritchie said, “I am not promising any kind of answers, but, if—and I say if hoping that you don’t—what kind of questions could the two of you possibly have?”

Jack and John glanced at each other. A silent ‘no, you tell him’ contest.

John sighed, reached for his pack of cigarettes, and said, “We need to hack into Creation.”

As expected, Ritchie’s eyes went wide. The shock silenced him for a moment. “John, we had those talks a long time ago.”

Talks? John had drank too much in the old days to remember everything. He fiddled with his lighter while he tried to recall what Ritchie meant. Ah, yes. There. A night in a London pub where they’d gone on past last call about the nature of creation and entropy. Come to think of it, Ritchie wrote a damn paper later that same summer. John had written a shitty song he cared not to repeat. 

Snapping the lighter, John said, “The Angel Castiel has lost his Grace. Used up and gone, no retrieval possible. So, we need a new Grace and it’s got to be carved from Creation itself. Is there a way or no?”

Birds chittered, students brushed past, the sun shone all too bright, and Ritchie stood stock still. “It wouldn’t be easy,” Ritchie said at last. “In theory, a level of Creation is out there, waiting to be tapped into. Is, technically, tapped into. Just like Entropy and half a million other universes. The plane of reality is a fragile tapestry. I’m afraid of what will happen if you tug on the threads, John. You will do irreparable damage.”

“The forces of darkness are already doing the damage,” John said. “We aim at the other side, mate. Without Castiel, we’re hopeless.”

A solemn moment for the three of them. Even though he ducked as much of reality as he could, Ritchie could not deny the increasing darkness in the world. He had said as much the other week. Again, Ritchie pushed at his glasses. “There is an idea, John, that dimensions ride at certain frequencies. More than light, more than sound, they’re something extra. Psychic, if you will. If you can find the right wavelength, you can break into anything. But we don’t have the technology. Our research is decades, possibly centuries away from that kind of discovery.”

“Any chance,” John said, “you could find the wavelength?”

“Mathematically, yes,” Ritchie said. “Given a bit of time I could find the formula, but there’s no way to get the technology to make that work in our lifetimes.”

“Let us worry about that,” Jack said. 

Ritchie edged away, even so subtly. Still that temptation was right there. Knowledge out for the seeking and Ritchie was never one to dodge that. He stroked his jaw and scowled away, but after a second he said, “I could work the math. Look into it.”

John patted his shoulder. “That’s a boy.”

“It’s not a promise,” Ritchie vowed.

“Better than the nothing we had before,” John said.

Ritchie frowned more. “Something tells me I’ll regret this. And sooner rather than later.”

“You won’t,” Jack said.

That didn’t appease Ritchie. Few things did once he got a hint of danger.

“I’ll tell you when I have something,” Ritchie said.

“I’ll be waiting your call with bated breath,” John said.

Ritchie stalked away at those words. John watched, and perhaps prayed that nothing would happen to his old friend. He’d never admit that. Since when did Heaven or God pay attention to his desires?

“I might have something,” Jack said.

“Hm?”

“If there’s a frequency, I might have the tech,” Jack replied. “But it’s in Boston.”

“Might as well go collect,” John muttered. “Ritchie won’t take forever.”

“Interested in coming?” 

“Why not?” John said. “Never been. Might as well get a glance.”

Because if this all went wrong, there would be no world—much less Boston.

John had to hope they could pull this off. Better than the alternative. Besides, maybe on a trip he’d have a chance to solve a few mysteries that was Jack Harkness. 

Somehow, John figured that was less likely than grabbing a new Grace.


	5. Chapter 5

“So what’s in Boston?” Zed said. She had her arms crossed over her chest and she was watching him a bit too close for John’s comfort. Curious to see what he added or didn’t add to his bag of tricks.

“Don’t know,” John said. “If you think I like my secrets, you should talk to Jack some time. Man makes me look like a Facebook page.”

“I did. I have a problem telling what’s a lie and what’s the truth with him.” Zed sat on the edge of the table. “I don’t know what to make of him.”

An echo of his thoughts. John avoided meeting Zed’s eyes. He wanted to prevent from making a habit of silent communication with her. Who knew when her abilities would expand and include actual mind reading? While no amateur, John’s mental shields would stand no match against someone with Zed’s easy power. 

“You don’t either,” Zed said slowly.

Of course, she knew him well enough to read his body language. He forced a smile on his lips. “Look, I decided not to poke this too hard.”

“Why?” Zed asked.

“That’s obvious,” Chas replied. He had a plate with fries and burger and he held it towards John. 

Greedy for the food, John took it off Chas’s hands.

“What’s obvious?” Zed said. 

Chas walked back towards the kitchen, shouting over his shoulder, “He likes him.”

John focused on eating. Didn’t have too much time before Jack would be back with tickets and what not for the trip. Internet was spotty far down inside the millhouse, so he’d gone topside to make the arrangements. He’d claimed that John needed nothing for the trip, but to go unprepared anywhere was to invite disaster.

Thanks to Chas’s comment, Zed had this knowing ‘isn’t that cute’ smirk going. She turned towards John.

“Don’t,” John said.

“You like him? Have you told him?”

John swallowed down the bite, almost laughed thinking about the amount of other things he’d swallowed in Jack’s presence, and wiped his mouth. The food had to be abandoned until he was ready to go. “I think he’s got the general idea.”

“John, if you don’t talk to people—” Zed began.

Oh dear God, she was going to make him say it. John heaved a sigh and put his hands on his waist. “I’ve been seeing him off and on for months now.”

Zed blinked at him. “You’ve been dating someone and you didn’t tell me?”

“Two,” Chas called out from the kitchen.

“It’s not dating!” John roared, more in anger at Chas for his sudden betrayal. When he rolled his eyes—a movement that was more like rolling his whole body—back towards Zed, he resolved to keep a tight lip.

“Do they know about each other?” Zed asked. “I mean, a man as hot as Jack, why would you cheat on him?”

So much for keeping his mouth shut. She would only dig until she got answers. Chas was going to get his for this. On second thought, he also had everything he’d need for this run. John closed up his bag. “I’d hope they’d both know since we’ve all been in bed together.”

“Who’s the third?” Zed said.

“You know.”

Zed blinked at him a few times. “You don’t tell me everyone you know.”

“You’ve met him.”

A dawning realization came over Zed’s face. “Castiel?” she shouted. “You’re sleeping with an Angel?”

“Hey, he wants to,” Jack said from the top of the stairs. He had a big grin on his face. “Who’re we to deny what a servant of Heaven wants?”

“But it’s got to be some kind of blasphemy,” Zed said. “Human desires in an Angel?”

“More than humans have lust,” Jack countered as he came down the metal steps. “There’s a whole alien culture that makes Brave New World look like a nunnery.” He grinned even more at John. “You wouldn’t last a day on that planet. I have trouble keeping up.”

“At least I’d go out with a smile,” John replied. He refused to let this little development embarrass him. After all, they all had healthy sex drives. No shame to be had in that.

“Packed?”

“Missing a set of spare clothes. I’m guessing this is a one-day-one-night endeavor.”

“Don’t bother with pajamas.”

“You’re giving her ideas that she doesn’t need,” John said with a nod at Zed.

Zed was grinning big and happy. 

“I don’t mind if you don’t.” Jack winked at her.

Zed laughed.

John shoved his bag into Jack’s hands. Joke all they wanted, Zed had a thing going for that Jim Corrigan. And when she wasn’t liking someone else, she was too drawn in on herself to see much of anyone. In no way would Zed join their tangle of the sheets. Not that he’d necessarily mind. Zed was an attractive woman. Come to think of it—

Damn Harkness for even putting those considerations back in his mind. John liked what he had with the immortal because it was simple and a way to forget about things that should never be. Like him and Zed. A union with her was bound to spell bad news for the both of them. John glared at Jack.

Jack was grinning without shame. He leaned in and kissed John’s cheek.

Zed was all happy, merry, and blushing.

“You are going to get it later,” John hissed.

“We’ll see who gets what.” Jack walked away.

John groaned and went for his clothes. No more lovers meeting friends. 

That was an unsettling thought. Lovers and friends. Last time he had those, really had those, he’d burned it all and damned a girl’s soul. Sudden doubt clawed at him and, even though no one was around, he cleared his throat. Shoved those thoughts away. They’d not yet begun on this task of Castiel. To begin with doubt was to invite failure and no one could afford the cost of that.

Still, though, Jack was going to pay for putting thoughts in Zed’s imagination. Soon as John figured out how.

************* 

John had slumped down in the lounge chair and kicked his feet up on the opposite seat. Sunglasses blocked most of the light and he was about to nod off when a book dropped on his stomach. Jack settled into the seat beside him while John shoved the glasses up enough to read.

It was a shitty looking cover—two overly muscular fantasy men making eyes at the camera. Something oddly familiar about them, but probably because they looked like any other two gits on a book cover. John drawled, “Supernatural? I can think of better things to do on a plane than read a crappy book.”

He tossed the book back at Jack and let the sunglasses sink back in place.

Jack pressed the book into John’s abdomen. “Read the first chapter.”

With a frustrated sigh, John sat up. He threw the sunglasses at Jack for spite and cracked the book open wide. A cough for emphasis, because he was getting to be in a mood, and then he read out the words. “‘Every story has a beginning and this one begins at night, in a nursery. A toddler in his father’s arms said goodnight to his baby brother. A mother smiled and the parents tucked their children in before going to bed themselves. If that was where the story ended, this would be a happy tale. Unfortunately, this is only the beginning.’ A real Dickens, this one.”

“Keep reading,” Jack said.

“‘The mother woke near midnight. She found the bed empty, her husband’s woke before her, and the baby monitor flickered with mute sounds. The baby was fussing again. She would see if she was needed.’ Jack, this is murder on the nerves. This Edlund go on like this for a whole book?”

“For a whole series.”

“And probably made a boatload of cash off it too. If this is what passes for reading these days, maybe I should give a go at writing.”

“Keep going,” Jack said.

John played up his voice for theatrics. If he had to read this awful thing, he’d have his fun with it. “‘So the mother went to the nursery, but the father already stood over the infant. She watched them with joy in her heart for her growing family. The baby was safe in his hands, so she tread quietly down the hall.’” John let the book fall closed around his thumb. “What have I done to you lately? Is there some crime I’ve committed that’s got you riled up? Did you want me to stay here because I can. I can grab a cab and—” 

“Get back to it.”

“You’re merciless. ‘She thought of all the good times the growing family had had and all the times yet to come. The light blinking at the top of the stairs was only a minor distraction for her bliss. A few small taps and everything put right. She breezed down the stairs and stopped dead in the living room doorway. 

“‘Her husband slept soundly on the couch. Frightened, terrified, the mother shouted and ran back up the stairs. Calling her baby’s name over and over until she was in the nursery.

“‘The father woke to his wife’s blood-curdling scream. He rushed up to the nursery, but saw no sign of her. A nightmare, he told himself, only another stupid nightmare. He glanced down an the infant and a smile almost broke across his lips.’” John rolled his eyes. “You like this crap?”

“You’ll see my point soon enough.”

John sighed loudly, “‘But the smile never came and John would find few things that would ever make him smile again.’ Oh, we share a name? Is that the joke here?” When Jack motioned at the book, John grudgingly turned his attention back to it. “‘Blood dropped onto the infant’s head. John looked up. There, pinned to the ceiling, was his beautiful wife Mary. A wide swath of blood coated her stomach and dropped heavy onto their son’s bed. As shock claimed John’s mind, she erupted into bright orange flames that raced along the ceiling. He cried out in terror and fell to the floor, hopeless for an instant. Then he heard his young son’s steps in the hallway and he knew what had to be done. He swept the baby out of its crib and thrust the infant into the child’s arms. “Dean, take your brother outside as fast as you can.”’”

John read that sentence three times before continuing. “‘So Dean, only four years old, ran from the house with baby Sammy in his arms, their lives forever altered.’” Not possible. John let the book close again and he struggled to find the words. “This is meant to be them, isn’t it? The Sam and Dean are the ones we know.”

Jack nodded.

“They have a bleeding book series! What sort of numbskulls—”

“They didn’t write it,” Jack said. “A prophet of God did.”

That took the anger out of John’s wrathful sails. He slumped back in the seat and stared at the book between his hands. The tales of Sam and Dean Winchester, published for all to see. God had decreed it so, apparently. Who was John to argue with God? Well, besides most waking moments. 

He bit at his lip. “How much of this is true?”

“Cas says about ninety percent. It has embellishments,” Jack said. 

“So these are meant to be, what? The Gospel of Winchester by Carver Edlund?”

“Basically.”

A sudden coldness ran down John’s spine. “How far do they go?”

“Worried about an appearance?” Jack asked.

“Sam’s viewpoint of me in dreamland can’t exactly be my best side.”

“You’re safe. The narrative stops at the apocalypse they averted five years ago.”

“Good,” John muttered. He cracked open the book again. “How many of these have you got with you?”

“I’ve got a tablet with me. They’re all on there.”

John snorted. “Let’s see how much I can get through in a day.”

“I thought you hated it.”

John turned a page. “And miss the chance to learn the Winchesters’ secrets? No way.”

“I gave it to you so you could see why Cas trusts them.”

“Uh huh.”

“John,” Jack said. “These books, they get personal.”

“They start that way, don’t they?” John said, only half paying attention to the conversation. “Their mother burns on the second page.”

“Just keep that in mind the next time you see them,” Jack said. “And don’t tell them I showed them to you.”

“I’ll blame Chas, should the need arise.” John flipped through another page. Cutting through Edlund’s verbose prose made this a faster read. “Though I’ll try not to bring it up. Whatever you do, don’t hand one of these to Zed.”

“I doubt she’d need them. Her abilities are getting stronger.”

John grunted an agreement. Already swept up in the book, he was caring less and less about what Jack had to say at this precise moment. 

After all, how often does one get to read the sordid, detailed past of a lover’s best friends?


	6. Chapter 6

Boring suburban house after boring suburban house sat in a file. Jack had driven them straight from the airport to this area of real estate. As far as safehouses went, if one wasn’t going to build it out in the middle of nowhere, one house among neighborhoods of practically identical two-story homes was a good idea.

“How are you even still reading?” Jack asked.

John had his feet up on the dash of the rental SUV, a cigarette hanging on his lip, and Jack’s tablet between his hands. One pleasure of a boyfriend demanding to drive a huge vehicle, John had space to sprawl. He said, “I’m well versed in Latin, Sumerian, Old English, Middle English—and most of those buggars were transcribed by hand. By comparison, this is easy as a kindergartener’s.”

“Your eyes haven’t gotten tired yet?”

“My stamina is greater than you give it credit for.”

“Where are you at?”

“Bloody Mary is about to murder another girl,” John said.

“That’s book five.”

“Skipped book four. Demon on a plane, wooo, scary.” John flicked ash out the window. A smile tugged on the corner of his lip. “You have these memorized.”

“I may have read them a few times,” Jack admitted with a touch of embarrassment.

John laughed. “You actually like them?”

“They grow on you.”

“Fungus grows on bread, wouldn’t chow down on it,” John replied.

“Story-telling is one of those strange things humans do that both changes and doesn’t change over time. No book is a complete waste of time.”

“I’m sure I could come up with a list even you wouldn’t like.”

Jack shrugged.

“I could stop teasing, if you’re willing to divulge a few secrets.” John glanced over at Jack. Grant it, his eyes were beginning to feel the edge of exhaustion, but he couldn’t admit to that now. “You promised to spill about Ritchie.”

“I did.”

When Jack said nothing more, John rolled his eyes. “Come on, then.”

“Dr. Simpson publishes several papers about singularities and the nature of dimensional energy wavelengths. It’s one of the stepping stones to humans developing time travel.”

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. “Isn’t that what we just set him on?”

Jack gave John a weary glance. “Probably. Or maybe he had the idea beforehand.”

“Did come to him awful quick.” John took a long drag off the cigarette. He did, after all, have a man of the future sitting beside him. If Jack had any idea to the outcome of their endeavor, would he share that knowledge or claim he had to protect the timeline?

“Go ahead. Ask,” Jack said.

John refused to rise to that bait right away. “Am I that obvious?”

“I’m honestly terrified when you aren’t,” Jack replied.

“Right then. Do you know if we manage to work this out?”

“Religion was never my strong suit. I only learned what I needed to know for a mission and that was it. And my specialty was never Earth until after I left the Agency.”

“Agency?” John asked.

“We’re here,” Jack announced as he pulled into a driveway.

“What agency?” John demanded.

Jack snapped off the ignition and stepped out into the yard.

Bastard was going to keep ducking him. John flung the tablet aside, dropped out of the car, and hurried across the snow-covered front lawn. “You make me look like the saint of transparency,” he complained. “Were you part of some time-travelling spy network?”

Jack had a huge key ring out and he flipped through over a dozen keys. As he put one home in the house’s lock, he grinned at John, but it had the ghost of malice. “I have to be careful what I say around you.”

“Because you’ll alter the future?”

“Because you’re too clever.” Jack swept the door wide. “And it’s been a while since I dated anyone smart enough to put the pieces together.”

“That’s not fair to Castiel.”

“Castiel has a bank of cosmic knowledge,” Jack replied. “Biggest cheat in the universe.”

They stepped inside the house, Jack keeping the lead. He fussed with a control panel inside the living room. Dust floated in the air, coated the banister leading upstairs along with every surface in sight, and gave the house a cloggy, gray atmosphere. On instinct, John shoved his hands inside his trench coat pockets. No one had tread through this room in ages from the looks.

Only on the first glance. John cocked his head to the side and tiptoed down to the end of the front hall.

“Don’t have it disabled yet,” Jack warned.

At the end of the hall, a set of footprints disturbed the dust. The step went immediately left into the living room, onto carpet, but John trailed it back to the back door. Beyond, the backyard was undisturbed. “You said no one knew about this hiding place?” John called out.

“Right,” Jack replied as he came to the kitchen.

John pointed at the dusty footprints. “Someone’s been here. Before the snowfall.” He narrowed his eyes and knelt down.

Part of the dust nearest the door had a yellow cast. John pinched some between his fingers, rubbed it, and gave a sniff. He grimaced. “Sulfur.”

“Damn it,” Jack hissed. The greatcoat whirled around his legs as he rushed to a door.

John hurried after him and together they thundered down a wooden staircase to the basement. A heavy, thick, burnt odor choked the air in the cool lower floor. Out in the middle of the room lay a fire-ruined pile of, well looked like trash now. May have once been clothes or something. On the far wall, a small metal door laid wide open beside a keypad.

John hesitated by the bottom of the stairs. Anger had overtaken Jack’s stance and he stormed across the room, carefully skirting the pile in the center. He opened the leather wriststrap and hooked it up to the keypad. After a moment, Jack slammed the door shut.

“It’s been cleaned out,” Jack said. He slammed his hand against the metal door.

Slowly, John approached the burnt pile. “Probably by demons.” He gently lifted fabric, probably had been a jacket once. Pinstripe? Too blackened to tell for sure. “Got rid of what they didn’t want.”

“What do demons want with alien technology?” Jack demanded.

“You think Crowley wouldn’t want the power to reshape Creation?” John muttered. He flung the fabric aside and dug through more. Remnant of a tie here, more clothes, a singed wedding dress that had been buried under a plastic monstrosity. The dress John pulled free and let hang to the air. The style was old, very old.

John prepped a dry, witty remark. His lip even cracked in a bit of a smile, but thank the Almighty that he looked up before delivering the teasing barb.

The look on Jack’s face was pure agony. His eyes had clouded with tears and he held perfectly still. Even his breathing had stopped.

This stash had been a wider collection than alien artifacts. Jack had kept personal things here, too. John glanced from the dress back to the pile. Of course demons would have no need for personal artifacts. Of course the bastards would burn Jack’s memories for their sick pleasure.

John carefully drew the dress clear from the wreckage, barely risking folding it, and offered it to Jack. “Might be more,” he said with a nod to the pile. “Doesn’t look like a thorough job.”

Jack took the dress. In a shaky voice, he said, “Give me a minute to go through it.”

“Sure. I’ll be out back.” John drifted up the stairs.

He glanced back once, while at the top, and regretted the view.

Tears were coming slow down Jack’s cheeks. In his grief, he was an island a thousand miles away. The immortal man pawing through the ashes for anything worth keeping. How much could Jack remember without the cues of physical items? He was only a modified human after all.

Brooding on that topic, and on his own place in Jack’s memories, John strode out through the back door. The crisp February air cleared the dust from his throat. Almost too good of air, though it had the stink of Boston city instead of the clay scent one picked up around Atlanta. John dragged out a cigarette.

The slightest flap of wings let him know he wasn’t alone. The Angel had a presence, one that pressed against the skin like a strong static charge getting ready to go. John ignored the other until after he’d gotten the cigarette going.

“A little morbid considering what was done downstairs,” Manny said as he stepped towards John. The back porch was a few feet wide and Manny had landed on the far side. “And definitely rude.”

“Addiction calls,” John grumbled. He was feeling a sick, shaky feeling under his skin. Not Manny’s fault. This was helplessness. Jack’s things had burned and now he grieved and wanted to do so alone. Should he have offered to stay and help?

When had he cared about Jack’s emotional state?

John took a drag off the cigarette. Oh, right, after the confessional. John had killed a good friend; Jack had murdered his own grandson. Murderers, the pair of them, and now they sought to fix an Angel? What right did they have? Maybe the demons stealing everything was a sign.

“You have any other words?” John asked.

“Check the garage.”

An order? John was in no mood. He spun towards Manny to let him have a piece of his mind—after all, if the Angel knew what had gone on in the house, why didn’t he bother stopping any of it? More useless Angel methods?—but Manny vanished in the split second.

Annoyed further, John finished the cigarette before tossing it out onto the snow. He went back inside and threw open a few doors before finding the one to the garage.

Artifacts were strewn across the floor. Some of them metal, some of them clothing, some of them in shapes completely foreign to John. Most looked damaged in some fashion—particularly the clothes. Especially any suits. John picked his way towards the center. Apparently the demons had hated Jack. Strange, but the lot was known to hold grudges. Look at how his soul’d been marked for a wrong move.

John looked for anything that wasn’t likely to murder him for picking it up wrong. Well, other than the clothing. Out in the center, he spotted a pile of journals. Two of them had been ripped to shreds, the papers thrown about the room. A third hid under the leather covers of the others. John brought it up from the pile.

One of Jack’s diaries? A small look couldn’t hurt. John flipped open the cover.

_Diary of Ianto Jones. January 2004-September 2006._

John went cold. He stared at the page, at the neat handwriting, and took a deep breath. Sure, Ianto was a bit uncommon, but Jones? Too many Joneses in the world to count. Just because he’d had one run in with a Ianto Jones didn’t mean this was the same man.

He should check on that. He flipped through the pages until he found July’s entries. Or did he need August? August made more sense. He thumbed through a few more pages. Ianto had a clear, easy cursive style. Meticulous. A few days at the end of July became hasty and hard to read. John would have passed right over them, except the J’s and C's stuck out.

_Jack Harkness and his team from Cardiff have claimed the wreckage. One of them is always working. Jack Harkness, Susie Costello, Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper. Their comm signal was easy to patch into. I won’t be able to take any more. They’ve got it inventoried and half-collected now. But Lisa needs more._

_I’ve become so desperate I’m actually considering magic a real answer. Why not? Aliens break into our world, they turn us into monsters, they all disappear through some technical catastrophe? Why not magic? I have to help her. She’s all I have left._

_July 31 st, 2006_

_I dug through a dozen shitty stores. People have gone insane in London, and those few who have remained sane look at me like I’m one of the crazy ones when I ask questions. Only one old man took pity on me. He said the kind of magic I wanted was hard—too hard for the common practitioner. He said I was in luck though, a powerful bastard happened to be in town. Drinking too much, but rumor had it that was the best way he did magic. John Constantine._

_I’ve got to find him. I spent half the night searching, but no one’s seen him and few had even heard of him. I was pointed in circles. There was one common thread—bars. Pubs. Shitty places where you can still smoke and not be bothered. London only has so many bars._

_Lisa’s running out of time. I have to find John Constantine._

The chill settled deep in John’s stomach. A long ago London night came to mind, but John ignored it. Not his fault, he claimed. None of this was his fault. He hadn’t made Ianto do anything the boy didn’t want to do. In fact, he couldn’t be reasonably sure that Ianto had done anything at all.

John lied to himself a half dozen times in that second, and even though he had a good working knowledge of the truth, he buried the facts under that pile of mental garbage.

“John!”

Jack had found him. John still had the diary in his hands, but he had his back to Jack. In one slick movement, he pocketed the journal in a trench coat pocket and spun towards the other man. He almost plastered a smile on his face, but that would have been obvious. Carrying away the journal, hiding this nasty bit of truth, was easy work if he didn’t foul the next three seconds. Instead of a smile, John let the exhaustion of the day catch up to him. A weary look at Jack, devoid of energy. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you found anything.” Jack was walking carefully through the garage. “Though looks like you found the rest of what they wanted to dump.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Didn’t want to touch anything in case of alien explosion.”

“Smart idea,” Jack agreed.

“Where’s the dress?” John asked.

“Left it in the kitchen.” Jack was surveying the room. “Wasn’t anything else worth keeping in the other pile.”

“Sorry.”

Jack shrugged. He had a careful neutral mask—one that John had stretched on his own features.

“Work cut out for us here,” John said.

“You’re exhausted. There’s beds upstairs. Get some sleep.”

“I can help.”

Jack kissed John’s cheek. “I’ve got this. Go.”

John nodded and slipped out of the room. He saved the mental panic attack for when he’d gotten a few doors between him and Jack.

Alone in a stale bedroom, John took the journal out from its hiding place. Jack had said nothing, so he must have seen nothing. The best way to keep this secret was to destroy the diary. If he did this now, Jack would never know.

John flipped the journal out to the center and took hold of a few pages.

_Should have known April would be so cold at night. I was freezing and Lisa was shivering. We were huddled together, but it wasn’t enough. Lisa turns to me with that bright smile of hers and says, ‘Sharing them will work better.’_

 The words had caught his attention. On the night Ianto Jones had taken Lisa on a camping trip, John had been working his last gig with the band. Of course, John hadn’t known that at the time. Those days seemed to stretch forever. And also of course, Ianto Jones had no way of knowing that by the end of summer his girlfriend would be half-cyberman.

What had happened to her? John had the answers in his hand.

After he read it, he’d find a way to slip it into Jack’s belongings. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but Jack would live a long time. John would have plenty of opportunities to get the diary back to him and far fewer chances to read it without explanations.

John shed off the trench—placing it in the way of the door in case Jack wandered upstairs—and kicked off his shoes before settling onto the bed. Time to see how fast he could read.


	7. Chapter 7

Ruby-black eyes and dark hair. John ran through Ravenscar’s empty halls, but the hellhound bounded after him. Its hot breath blasted his heels and it nipped at him.

A woman’s voice laughed at him. Another voice, more demonic, laughed with her. A chaos of jeers, a choir of hate. A man’s face loomed out of the shadows. His father’s? His own? No matter, he ran.

Finally, he saw an end to this long hall. A corner to turn, a new place to go. John sprinted with everything left in him.

Dean Winchester stepped around the corner. His eyes were pitch black, his grin manic, and he waved the First Blade at John. “It’ll only take a second.”

John skidded to a halt, rebounded off the white wall, and shoved through the nearest door. Anything to get out of this madness.

He stepped into a nursery. Darkened so much he could hardly see except for the moonlight highlighting the crib. He fumbled his way over and grasped onto the railing.

Inside laid a metal helmet. Blood dripped down onto the mattress. 

Everything willed him to leave the room, but instead he looked up in horror. There was Ianto Jones pinned to the ceiling. His torso had been slashed from throat down.

John stumbled back and fell to the floor. 

Ianto Jones burst into flame.

John shoved away and the floor swallowed him up. He struggled and fought against the thing holding him. This must be Hell, forever unable to escape this strange bond. The hellhound’s hot breath was on his face, his neck, his body. It panted in loud, gasping glee. He screamed. He fell.

Onto the bedroom floor. The sharp drop of falling from the bed brought enough startling real pain with it that John was instantly awake. The jump from dreamscape to reality was too fast and for a moment he believed he was still caught in that nightmare. Any second the hellhound would resume its chase.

No, the room was only cold and dark because the lights were off and the heat at a minimum. His throat was raw and sweat covered him. He was panting, too. And shaking. John ran his hands through his hair, counted until his heart stopped racing.

Too much reading and too much guilt with a history of too vivid dreams. At least when he’d been in the real Ravenscar they’d been able to sedate him out of that shit. Out in the ‘real world,’ he’d have to settle for a smoke. He lazily put on his pants and shirt, not bothering to button up either, but needing something against the chill in the air. Jack had a thing against smoking, so better to go downstairs to the garage instead of staying up in the room. After checking that Ianto’s journal was well hid under the mattress—John did not need Jack finding he’d stolen that—he lumbered downstairs.

Jack had made good progress. Seemed he had a pile for keeping and a pile for tossing. The toss pile included many ruined clothes and other items. John had apparently snuck in because the other man didn’t turn towards him at all. Fine with John. Watching Jack move about in dedicated purpose was relaxing after the nightmare. At some point, Jack had taken off the greatcoat and his outer blue shirt. All the better to watch him in. John leaned against the doorframe and dug for his lighter. 

As John flicked for a flame, Jack said, “I wish you’d stop.”

“I like my vices,” John replied despite the cigarette between his lips. It caught easily.

Jack sighed and stopped. He turned towards John with a mix of pity and concern in his eyes. Now that was an unattractive look in John’s book. “You can’t even tell.”

That sentence sapped the heat from John. “Tell what?”

“The other night? I was pretty sure you were the one coughing, not Cas.”

“Happy to say I don’t have those kinds of fits,” John said.

“But you’re short of breath. Exhausted.”

“I’m exhausted because I don’t sleep well,” John said. “And I’m short of breath because I was running in my sleep.”

“I don’t mean just tonight.”

John took a long drag on the cigarette. “So I should go ahead and enjoy myself if the days are marked.”

“Or you could stop smoking and get checked,” Jack snapped.

John shrugged.

Jack waved at the pile of garbage. “Do you have any idea what the demons destroyed here?”

With a cautious glance, John looked at the pile again. Was a suspicious group of personal effects. The journal upstairs was a dead giveaway too. 

“Come on, John. You’re clever. Tell me.”

“Remembrances of past lovers,” John said. 

“Dead ones,” Jack corrected. “People who died long before they deserved to. And you throw away good health because what? You don’t care?”

John held back a snappy remark on how he didn’t deserve to be alive, so why the hell did his health matter at all? He let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been smoking over half my life at this point, the whole time with the warnings blaring at me—”

“Anything else you add is going to be an excuse,” Jack said.

“Maybe so! But they’re my reasons, my ‘excuses,’ and it’s my damn life so I’ll make the choices!”

“Excuse me for wanting you around!”

“You are always going to outlive me! Some point, I’m going to die, you’re going to live, and that’s the way of the universe. Want someone for eternity? Focus on Castiel. He’s your shot, not me.” 

“He’s dying too!” Jack had tears in his eyes again. They weren’t falling, but they gave his eyes a watery look. “It’s not here. The demons took it.”

“Then we know who to go after,” John said. “We find out which ones raided the house and wherever this ‘it’ went.”

“And if they’ve destroyed it?”

“Then we’ll find another way.”

“We’re running out of time! He’s weaker every day!”

“Maybe cleaning up your past was a waste of it!” 

Dreaded silence. John never regretted a damn thing, not when it came to verbal fights. Okay, there was that time he wished he hadn’t crushed Renee’s hopes about seeing Chas any time soon. The conversation with Zed about how Angels were assholes in veiled disguise. Or that one time with Jasper in the old days where he argued for three days straight that a millhouse in Georgia was a stupid place to move to. All right, he’d admit to a lot of things he wished he could swallow back.

Now, taking them back in the moment, that was never something he did.

That left him and Jack standing there staring at each other. John’s breath was loud and ragged. Maybe Jack had a point about his lungs. A terrifying idea. John Constantine, exorcist, master of the dark arts, and cancer victim? All Jack had for fucking proof was a little heavy breathing and too much restlessness. And fucking hell, didn’t they spend most of their time screwing and even less of it sleeping? Jack was a miserable judge of John’s health. At the thought, John clenched his jaw even tighter.

One of them was going to have to say something.

Jack turned back towards the garbage to be sorted.

A lonely man among wreckage. 

Fuck, did John have anything useful to say?

“I’m not flying to Atlanta in the morning,” Jack said.

Damn it, were they over? John adjusted and tried not to let the thought show on his face. Unlikely that Jack would drop him entirely since they needed each other to help Castiel, but John’s bed might’ve gotten cold again. Fine, if Jack wanted to be a moody brooding asshole, John had no place for him anyway.

Jack tossed a hunk of twisted metal onto the garbage pile. “I have to check on the other stashes.”

“I could come,” John offered. Hopeful as a bleeding schoolboy. That he wished he could take back right away.

Jack shook his head. “Don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I have to make sure I don’t lead them right to the other places and to ward the place against demons.”

“Probably be smart to add the Angels, too,” John mumbled.

“Yeah.”

After a hesitation, John said, “I could still come.”

“I’ve got to hit London, Libya, India, Indonesia, and come back to America through Los Angeles.”

“Jesus. That many?”

“For a while, the sun never set on the Torchwood empire either,” Jack replied. “Back in the day, there was no UNIT. Only us and the Men of Letters—and they didn’t cover alien threats.” He tossed something onto the keep pile. “I have to get this secure and get going.”

“Want my help?” John asked.

“You still have a nine a.m. flight. Sure you don’t want to sleep?”

John stepped down into the garage. “I’ll only be in nightmare land again. What’s the point?”

“Anything specific?” Jack asked.

“Newcastle,” John lied. Any time he didn’t want to discuss the nightmares, he used that word. To be fair, until the little mind-meld episode with Castiel, he had dreamed of that terrible mistake. Now he had the occasional dream that had nothing to do with his psyche. He finished the cigarette and abandoned that train of thought before he fell to brooding.

After all, he’d have enough time for that on the flight back to Atlanta.


	8. Chapter 8

John fell asleep on the taxi ride to the airport. He passed out again with his feet kicked up on a chair across the aisle in the waiting area. The nightmare had taken more out of him than the rest had given back. Staying up and working with Jack had only stolen remaining bits of energy. Exhaustion threaded itself into every second his eyes stayed open.

Yet, the moment he edged towards dreaming, he jumped awake. Apparently even a slight dodge into the land of Nod was enough to frighten the shit out of him. Memories of those images thankfully disappeared. However, John’s mood sank farther down. While waiting for the plane, he dug Jack’s tablet out and scrolled through more pages.

Carver Edlund’s prose was almost as dreadful as the nightmares. John scanned over the flowery nonsense for bits of useful information. He skipped ahead when the book bored him. Even with stints in Ravenscar, John had heard more than a few Winchester rumors. Surprisingly no one had ever brought up the books, but then their last name was never mentioned. Hunters weren’t really known for having copious amounts of time for reading outside research, so none of the various hunters that had minor appearances probably knew they were in the books.

Hell, when was the last time John had taken time to read something for pleasure? These novels counted more towards research. All right, he was amused that Dean’s sex life was right on the page in plain sight. And for once, the prose had a nice flavor.

A long time mage and an even longer paranoid personality, John had a radar for when something was watching him. One of those useful things that kept him alive. It pricked at him now, this sense of being the center of someone’s attention. He checked the waiting area, using his peripheral vision as much as possible. Demons weren’t likely to attack in the middle of an airport.

Okay, Gary Lester’s hunger demon aside, demons weren’t likely to go on a killing spree in an airport.

Still, a demon had attacked Jack’s safehouse. Maybe it had gotten that knowledge from Ianto, maybe it had always known. Maybe it planned on following John and using him for Jack’s compliance. Or, far more likely, something wanted to chat with John Constantine, Master of the Dark Arts.

A couple sitting towards the end of the aisle was sneaking glances at him. Something about him caused them to whisper and become excited. What the hell? Demons weren’t usually ones for gossipy giggles.

Then he saw the woman’s bag. Plainly obvious between a red ouroboros wrapped around a star and a patch declaring “Browncoats will rise again” was a black badge with a Devil’s Trap and the words “Supernatural, Join the Hunt” written on it.

John supposed, especially from an excited state of mind, that his attire bore a strong resemblance to Castiel’s. Did on a normal day. Never mind the missing suit jacket or wrong colored tie. One of the lousy book covers could have made Castiel look even more like John.

John laughed. He’d have to pick up a few of those badges just to piss off demons and the Winchesters. Send them to their secret hideout with a few physical copies of the books.

An announcement blared over the intercoms. The garbled language was hard to decipher in the noise of people and televisions, but John heard enough of the message. Flight was delayed for an indefinite period of time.

The man and woman argued between each other for a solid minute before the man joined the group of complaining passengers.

John chose out another of the Supernatural series. Something later, hopefully catching Castiel for once. The opening passage was about some doting couple arguing over Halloween candy. John would have laughed at the absurdity—a man choking on razor blades?—except he remembered that these tales were mostly true. Somewhere out there was a widow of this man.

That stole some of the pleasure out of teasing the Winchesters.

Another announcement broke out over the intercoms. They’d found a substitute plane to get the flight back on track. Surprisingly good luck on that.

When they got around to the boarding process, John rose from his seat. The tablet slid out of his hands like it had a mind of its own and landed harshly on its corner. Its surface splintered.

See, this was why he didn’t bother having nice things. He groaned and shoved the tablet into his bag. It landed beside the journal.

He didn’t want to think about what he’d read in the handwritten pages, not that he had much else to do while shuffling onto the plane with the other first class passengers. The journal ended abruptly. Ianto had done little more than record that the other members of Torchwood had shot Lisa after she’d murdered a local girl. The writing had been too perfect. A constrained effort to put down facts and close the book. That’s why the journal ended there, with plenty of blank pages in the back. Losing Lisa had been too painful.

Those passages had disturbed John only because the emotional pain was so raw. He’d held onto the journal because Mr. Ianto Jones had decided to detail his encounter with John. Everything down from the pub they’d met at through to the near dawn adventure in the park. Given that the journal was one of the remaining artifacts, John was certain Jack would read the damn thing soon as he discovered its existence. While he wasn’t so brutal to destroy the journal, John figured the mill house was safer for now. After all, it had the benefits of spell protection, alien protection, himself and Chas guarding it. It could go get lost amongst the piles of books. Once John was gone, Jack was likely to become the millhouse’s next guardian anyway. Okay, that was assuming Zed would take off someday. Either way, Jack was going to outlive both of them. He’d get the book back eventually.

That brooding session took John through most of the boarding process. He stretched out in his seat and closed his eyes. Habit, mostly, to turn as much travel time into sleeping time as possible. He never got much whenever he reached a destination. Hopefully, he’d be clear of the nightmares this time.

*************

Getting off a plane seemed to take longer than getting on the damn thing every time. When John finally got clear of the gangway, he scanned the crowd for some willing dupe. He never carried a cellphone, but he’d have a hard time locating Chas in the mess of people without one.

The woman with the bag covered in patches was waiting outside the men’s restroom. Good as person as any to ask. John sidled up to her, put on his best grin, and asked, “Hello, love. Any chance I could borrow a phone?”

“Oh my God, you’re English?” she said.

That was an unexpected answer. John suppressed a grimace into a smile. “I happen to have that pleasure. Sorry to bother you—”

“Oh, phone!” She dug into her coat pocket and pulled one out. “Sorry I’m so distracted, you look like somebody.”

John took the phone from her. “Who’s that?”

“It’s stupid,” she said.

“Well, you’ve only peeked my interest more.”

“My husband and I are huge _Supernatural_ fans. Have you heard of it?”

“A friend just introduced me to the series,” John said.

“We’re down here for the convention. It’s the first one in ages that Carver Edlund’s coming to.” The woman dug through her bag. “He’s promoting this.” She pulled out a comic book. “It’s his new series.”

John took the comic book and gave it a perfunctory glance. A blond man in a tan trench coat stood underneath a streetlight. A cigarette pursed in his lips, the smoke trail leading up to the title. Hellblazer.

No fucking way.

He was brutal on the pages, almost ripping them apart. The images were near perfect flashes of what had happened. There was him at Ravenscar, even the bloody name of the institution plastered. Him sitting with the hack of a doctor. _Make me believe. Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?_ There he was with Lucy. Her blood dripping onto the scrying map.

“Are you going to use that?” the man asked.

John glanced up. The man had rejoined the woman outside the restroom. He was pointing at the cellphone in John’s hand. In the couple of seconds he’d lost track of his surroundings. Not a good move and it’d put these strangers on edge.

“Bit of a shock,” John managed. “Bloke looks so much like me.” He pulled off a chuckle even though he wanted to shred the comic between his fingers. The training of a conman: never get rattled. “Not often you find yourself on the pages.”

More than ever, he needed to call Chas. He dialed and Chas picked up on the first ring. John asked, “You still about?”

“Been waiting on you. I worried that your plane went down, then I remembered I’m still alive.”

“That bored, huh?” They’d have nothing to do at the millhouse this afternoon and this comic business needed addressing. Suddenly the Winchester book series was even less of a joke. John dropped the phone away from his mouth. “You two heading straight to the convention?”

“You’re going?” the woman asked.

“Need to sate my curiosity. Want a ride? My friend can give you a lift.”

“That’d be great,” the woman said.

“John, what’s going on?” Chas asked.

“Wally, old sport, still there?” John replied. Working so long with the same mates came with benefits. Chas wouldn’t hesitate to jump into the cover names.

“I hate the name Wally. This makes you Glen,” Chas griped. “And what’s going on?”

“We’ve got a pit stop.” John glanced down into the pages. Chas bore little resemblance to his comic book alter ego. The anonymity should please the man—assuming he didn’t die twenty-eight more times from laughter at John. “Explain later.”

“Which terminal?”

John told him.

“I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“Will do, mate.” John hung up the phone, cleared the number off of it, and handed it back to the woman. “Cheers.”

“This is too perfect,” the woman said. “Sorry, but you’re just like him.”

John forced another smile. “Imagine that. Best we get moving, though. Don’t want to miss our ride.”

And John didn’t want to waste any more time. He wanted to have a chat with this Carver Edlund. Afterwards, he’d strangle him. Or shove a few comics down the bastard’s throat. On their way out of the terminal, John pictured a dozen more deaths for the faceless creator. Just as soon as he figured out why a prophet of God was writing about _him_.


End file.
